o her ears. To have been befooled where she
had regarded herself as being most beloved,--to have been only second,
where she had fondly imagined herself to be first and dearest,--is a
thought bordering upon madness.

Passionate sobs rise in her throat, and almost overcome her. An angry
feeling of rebellion, a vehement protest against this deed that has
been done, shakes her slight frame. It cannot be true; it shall not;
and yet--and yet--why has this evil fallen upon her of all others? Has
her life been such a happy one that Fate must needs begrudge her one
glimpse of light and gladness? Two large tears gather in her eyes, and
almost unconsciously roll down her cheeks that are deadly white.

Sinking into a chair, as though exhausted, she leans back among its
cushions, letting her hands fall together and lie idly in her lap.

Motionless she sits, with eyes fixed as if riveted to earth, while
tears insensibly steal down her pensive cheeks, which look like
weeping dew fallen on the statue of despair.

For fully half an hour she so rests, scarce moving, hardly seeming to
breathe. Then she rouses herself, and, going over to a table, bathes
her face with eau-de-Cologne. This calms her in a degree, and stills
the outward expression of her suffering, but in her heart there rages
a fire that no waters can quench.

Putting her hat on once again, she goes down-stairs, feeling eager for
a touch of the cool evening air. The hot sun is fading, dying; a
breeze from the distant sea is creeping stealthily up to the land. At
the foot of the staircase she encounters Dorian coming towards her
from the library.

"I have been hunting the place for you," he says, gayly. "Where on
earth have you been hiding? Visions of ghastly deaths rose before me,
and I was just about to have the lake dragged and the shrubberies
swept. Martin is nearly in tears. You really ought to consider our
feelings a little. Why, where are you off to now?"--for the first time
noticing her hat.

"Out," returns she, coldly, looking straight over his head: she is
standing on the third step of the stairs, while he is in the hall
below. "I feel stifled in this house."

Her tone is distinctly strange, her manner most unusual. Fearing she
is really ill, he goes up to her and lays his hand upon her arm.

"Anything the matter, darling? How white you look," he begins,
tenderly; but she interrupts him.

"I am quite well," she says, hardly, shrinking away from his touch